


Nine Months

by Purseplayer



Series: Grasping verse [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: AU, BDSM, D/s, Dom!Kurt, M/M, Spanking, sub!Blaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purseplayer/pseuds/Purseplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous prompted: Blaine goes out and his phone dies, and Kurt is trying to call him and is getting so worried about his sub. When he finally gets home, Kurt lets him explain and he was something completely harmless. But Blaine still gets a spanking for worrying his dom so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Months

**Author's Note:**

> I worked this into the Grasping verse, but it can also easily stand alone. I apologize for any inconsistencies, and for the fact that this is written in present tense while Grasping is written in past.

There’s something a little unusual about Blaine requesting to go out with Sam on a Tuesday, but it’s easy to ignore when Blaine is so warm and golden, smiling and giddy in their bed, pressing sloppy kisses to Kurt’s mouth and his jaw and his cheek.  Kurt doesn’t want to get up, but he has to work.  It’s a simple thing to say _yes_ when Blaine begs him to linger a few moments longer, his pleas accented by the hot flat of his tongue painting strokes up Kurt’s cock.  _Yes_ , Blaine is good, so good, such a good, perfect boy.  _Yes_ , of course he can hang out with Sam today—as long as his chores are done and Mercedes says it’s okay.

But now it’s ten minutes after five, and Kurt is home, and Blaine is very obviously _not_.  It’s not a rule, exactly, and Kurt didn’t specify a time this morning, but Blaine knows when Kurt gets off of work, knows that he should be home by the time Kurt is.

He watches out the window for about five minutes, grows tired of it, and sends Blaine a text that is more annoyed than concerned.  He busies himself making dinner and tries not to be impatient.  He wishes, absently, that Andrew was here and not away visiting his daughter, as he does now once a month.  Then Kurt could have sent him out with Blaine, could at least have him here to brood with.

By six o’clock, his cell phone screen is still blank, and he’s truly worried.  He calls Blaine’s phone three times to no avail, and then he calls Mercedes.  It hasn’t been too long since Blaine’s been reunited with Sam, but Kurt and Sam’s Domme had instantly connected and now enjoy a blossoming friendship.

“What’s up, Boo?” she answers.

He sighs, cuts to the chase.  “Is your boy there?”

“No, not yet,” Mercedes says.  “He texted about fifteen minutes ago to say he’s on his way.”

“Did he happen to say anything about Blaine?  He’s not answering his phone.”

“Nope, but I’d be happy to ask him.”  She pauses, and Kurt knows she’s dissecting his words, his tone, trying to determine the perfect thing to say.  Mercedes is gifted that way; it’s part of what makes her such a fabulous Domme.  “Relax,” she continues.  “Sam would tell me if something was up.”

Kurt sighs, glances at the clock, and tightens the grip of his fingers.  “Could you check with him and get back to me?  It’s just—Blaine’s kind of breaking his unofficial curfew, and it’s not like him.”  They’ve never had this problem before, primarily because Blaine’s always been happiest to be wherever Kurt is.

“Sure, sure I will, Boo,” Mercedes agrees, her voice taking on a soothing tone that Kurt’s heard her use with Sam.  “Please don’t worry, though.  They’re together; I’m sure they’re fine.”

Kurt’s reconsidering the wisdom of letting two subs go out alone, even if they are together and visibly bonded, but he doesn’t say that.  “I’m sure you’re right, but I’ll feel much better once you check.  Let me know?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Cedes,” he says, and ends the call.

He presses the phone against his lips and takes a deep breath.  The timer dings on the oven, and he pulls out the casserole he threw together, puts in a tray of Blaine’s favorite cookies.  Not that he deserves them, what with being _missing_ , but even though Kurt knows he’s over-reacting he’s almost sick with the absence of him now.  And it’s no secret he loves to spoil his sub; Blaine is the reason he _smiles_.

His phone dings with a text, and Kurt rushes to the counter to check it.

 _DON’T PANIC_ , the first words read, and Kurt feels his heart begin to race.  _Sam said he and Blaine parted ways at least an hour ago, but that he was planning to make one stop and then head straight home.  I’m sure he’ll be there soon._

An hour.  An hour out there, alone, with no phone contact, and that is _definitely_ against the rules.

Kurt is panicking.  He calls Blaine’s phone and gets no answer.  He cuts the casserole, sets the cookies out to cool, and waits.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears the door moan its way open, hears the shuffle of a coat being placed on its hook, hears Blaine’s tentative, _blessed_ call of, “ _Kurt_?”

His relief is a rush of energy leaving his body, his heart sinking back into place in his chest.  And anger, cold and fierce, overpowering even his curiosity.

Blaine creeps into the kitchen with a sheepish smile, steps close to Kurt but doesn’t touch, opens his mouth and begins to say, “I’m sorry, Kurt, I—“

Kurt glares at him—his words are not needed to shut Blaine up—and pulls him into his arms, squeezing tight for long, precious moments, reacquainting himself with the familiar, perfect press of Blaine’s body into his. 

“Eat,” he says when he can finally drag himself away.

“I will,” Blaine says in a rush.  “I will, but just…”  He holds up his hand, and it’s only then that Kurt notices the cluster of roses held secure in the clench of his fist.

Kurt takes them, a bit of his anger softening, and for some crazy, inexplicable reason, he feels tears prickling in his eyes.  “Thank you,” he says in a raspy whisper, and turns to arrange the flowers in a vase while Blaine moves to gather some plates for them, as Kurt knew he would.

He’s so good, so beautiful, his eyes on Kurt all through dinner.  Kurt knows he is worried, unsure of where to step, but damnit, Kurt was _worried_.  Now it’s Blaine’s turn to wait.

By dessert, he’s feeling a little more in control.  “I made you cookies,” he tells Blaine quietly.  “You may go to the kitchen, grab us two each.”

Blaine’s smile isn’t quite as full as usual, but his eyes still twinkle his delight.  “And milk?” he asks hopefully.

Kurt manages to smile back.  He can’t help it, actually.  “Of course, milk,” he agrees, and watches as Blaine disappears through the doorway.

It doesn’t take them long to devour the cookies, but things are better between them as they do.  Kurt stretches his hand across the table in invitation, and Blaine’s fingers sliding into his feel just a good as they always have, maybe just a bit more cherished now that Kurt knows the fear of their absence.

When they’re finished, Kurt stands.  “I’d like you to clean up, please, and then meet me in the bedroom.  Kneel when you get there.”

Blaine nods, then hangs his head.  “Yes, Master.”

Kurt leaves him to it, going first to his sewing room where he keeps most of their supplies.  He fingers their assortment of paddles, runs his fingers across the soft, supple leather of their single whip, toys with a variety of restraints before he decides he doesn’t want any of it.  He only wants them.

He goes into the bedroom, sits on the bed, and waits.

It’s another ten minutes before Blaine comes in, looking only momentarily surprised to see him.  He allows his face to relax, both empty and open in preparation for whatever is to come, before he gracefully sinks to his knees with his eyes on Kurt’s.

It isn’t often that Kurt gets to see this; he mostly chooses to enter in the aftermath, with Blaine already ready, already waiting, anticipating his arrival.  But tonight, the show of it is just what he needs.  He stares for a few long moments before standing, walking forward, stroking his sub’s face.

“You owe me an explanation,” he says when he’s ready, and Blaine’s head dips down in acknowledgement.  “Don’t be ashamed,” Kurt corrects him.  “Tell me.”

“I asked you to go out with Sam…”—Kurt waits with bated breath—“and that’s what we did.  But I didn’t tell you what we were doing.”

“Which was…” Kurt prompts.

Blaine flushes.  “We, umm… we saved our money and signed up for a massage class.  We wanted to surprise you and Mercedes.  You’re so good at it, and I just wanted to be able to return the favor…”

“Did the class involve people touching you, touching other people?”

To Kurt’s relief, Blaine shakes his head.  “I knew you wouldn’t like that.  It was sub-friendly—they had some incredibly life-like dummies to practice on, and a few things we did on each other over our clothes.  Sam and I were partnered for that stuff.”

Kurt nods, accepting this.  “The class didn’t require a signature, for subs?”

“I—“ Blaine begins, then stops and takes a deep breath.  “I may have forged it.”

“Blaine!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, for our nine months.  That’s—that’s what the flowers were for too.”

Nine months.  Kurt hadn’t even realized.  He closes his eyes against the sudden rush of affection, because apparently even when he’s bad, Blaine is still so, so good to him. 

But that’s not—it can’t be—an excuse.  “That still doesn’t explain why you were late,” Kurt points out, “or why you didn’t answer your phone.”

“Well, the phone died.  I meant to charge it last night, but—“

“You should have checked before you left the house.  You should have asked Sam to use his phone.”

“I couldn’t remember your number; I’ve always had it programed.”

“You could have sent word through Mercedes.”

For a moment, Blaine looks angry, ready to defend himself, but he quickly dials it back, and says more calmly, “I’m sorry.  There were a lot of things I could have done, should have done, but at the time I was a little panicky.  I just didn’t think of all of that.”

Kurt nods, accepting this, and reaches out to twine his fingers through the curls on the top of Blaine’s head, sensing that he needs the contact and reassurance.  “Why were you late?” he asks quietly.  “Sam got home before you; I called Mercedes to check.”

“We… parted ways.  Mercedes told him to be back by six thirty, and we ran into some traffic.  He was gonna bring me home, insisted he could make it, but I…” Blaine looks down, then, seemingly by sheer force of will, back up into Kurt’s eyes.  “I wanted to buy you flowers,” he finishes.  “I’d already missed my curfew, and I had enough money left.  So I insisted he drop me off at the flower shop, told him I’d take the subway home.”

“That’s incredibly dangerous and foolhardy.  Sam should have known better.”  He doesn’t say _so should you_.  That is understood.  “Especially since you didn’t have a cell phone.  I’m going to have a talk with Mercedes.”

“Please, it’s not his fault,” Blaine pleads.  “I insisted.  I didn’t want him to get in trouble for being late.”

“I’m going to tell Mercedes,” Kurt says more firmly, “and it will be up to her what to do.”  He pauses.  “You’re going to be punished, Blaine.  But first—did anyone hurt you?  Give you any problems?”  He slides his hand out of Blaine’s hair, instead cupping his cheek, letting his thumb brush across the bow of his lips.

Blaine appears to struggle with this for a minute, then shakes his head.  “There were a couple guys—one lady, too; she looked like Cruella Deville—they were staring.  But they didn’t try anything; I swear!”

“Did they see where you got off?”

“Yes,” Blaine says, the word sounding breathy and forced.

Kurt nods and steps back.  “Blaine,” he says, “ _look_ at me.”

Blaine does.

“To start with, I don’t want you leaving the house for the next month, not with anyone but me.  That’s not so much to punish as it is to protect you.  We’ve talked about this, Blaine,” Kurt tries and fails to keep the anguish from his voice.  “There are doms out there who hunt subs, who track them.  There are doms who won’t give a shit that you’re bonded, that you’re _mine_.  Please just—never, _never_ do this again, okay?”

“ _Kurt_ ,” Blaine says, his hazel eyes glistening with tears.  He reaches out for Kurt, and Kurt lets him touch, lets Blaine’s fingers smooth across his stomach to curl around his hip.  “I won’t.  I promise.  There were moments it felt good, to be out there alone, but then it was scary, and… I won’t.”

Kurt nods, swallowing thickly.  “Stand up,” he says.  “I’m going to spank you.”

It’s not something they do often outside of gentle play.  Kurt is no sadist, and Blaine’s pretty far from a masochist—it takes a lot to get him to the point where pain bleeds into pleasure, and ultimately it’s not worth it for either of them.  Blaine is typically so good, infrequently needs punished, and when he does, Kurt finds other consequences more suitable.  But he knows it instinctively, in this moment, that this is what Blaine needs, what will restore their treasured equilibrium.

Blaine nods, standing, and takes Kurt’s hand, squeezing it and tugging Kurt forward.  “I love you,” he says into Kurt’s ear, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of his neck.

“I do too,” Kurt says.  “That’s why I need to do this, this time.” 

He doesn’t need to say it for Blaine, but rather for himself.  He feels more settled now, after putting a hint of his reluctance out there. 

Kurt moves to sink back onto the edge of the bed, watching as Blaine begins to tug his polo out of the tight waist of his pants, then thinks better of it.  He reaches forward, stilling Blaine’s hands.  “Let me,” he says, more a plea than a command.  Blaine trembles as Kurt’s nimble fingers brush his skin.

Something about the act of dressing, undressing each other has always been painfully intimate, sometimes too much for Kurt, but in the here and now it’s just a gift, a form of connection.  Blaine’s body is a gift, familiar and solid and perfectly imperfect as it’s slowly revealed to him, still and trusting, and Kurt feels his love for this man as a physical ache.

When Blaine is naked, Kurt guides him to the bed, onto his lap, rubbing his hands the length of Blaine’s back and buttocks and thighs both to soothe him and because he can’t help it.  “Thirty,” Kurt announces steadily.  “I’m not—I’m not going to go easy on you.  You really scared me, Blaine.”

Blaine turns his head, catching Kurt’s elbow with his lips, and Kurt sighs.  “What’s your safeword?” he asks.

“Lofty,” Blaine answers.  He had only recently chosen the word, explaining that it reminded him of his first impression Kurt—someone beautiful, dignified, untouchable.  Kurt still thinks his choice is a little strange, but he’s happy they’re using something a little more personal than the color system they’d been relying on for so long.

“I’d like you to count, sweetheart,” Kurt says.  Taking a deep breath, he carefully lands the first blow.

It’s more force than he likes to use, pinking Blaine’s skin rather quickly, Blaine jolting in his lap with a breathy, “One, Master.”  Kurt didn’t ask for the title, but he doesn’t correct him.  All in all, Blaine probably uses his title less the longer they’ve been together, but Kurt knows it’s a comfort to him during play or punishment, and Kurt himself appreciates the reminder of his role here, his responsibility.  He lands the next blow with less hesitation.

It seems to go on forever.  Blaine’s never taken this many before—at least not from him—but Kurt is resolute, even as Blaine’s voice grows more strained, as he tries on instinct to wriggle away from the blows.  He’s half-hard, too, filling slowly but surely against Kurt’s thigh.  When they pass twenty, his hips starts to circle, grind, and Kurt grants him this small relief.

They’re both breathing raggedly as Kurt’s hand lands a final time, Blaine calling out a barely-audible, “Thirty, Master,” before deflating into a puddle of goo on Kurt’s lap.  Kurt wants to scoop him up, cradle and rock him and never let him go.  But Blaine’s ass is a shiny, rich pink, so he lets them rest for a moment, rubbing Blaine’s back as he whimpers, combing fingers through his curls, and then reaches for the lotion.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, so good for me,” Kurt chants as he rubs it in, and Blaine whines at the contact before relaxing into it.  Kurt doesn’t stop, keeps massaging him as they maneuver to lay down on the bed, Blaine’s body curled into Kurt’s chest, his tears dampening Kurt’s fancy shirt.

He hates seeing Blaine like this, but in a way he loves it—his sub soft and pliant and sweet in a way that demands Kurt’s love and nurture, and Kurt wants to give it all to him, everything.  He slicks his hands with more of the lotion, works one into the slat between Blaine’s cheeks, massaging with gentle, easy pressure up and down, up and down, a fleeting touch over Blaine’s hole.  Soon, his cries turn to something decidedly more pleasant. 

Kurt lets his other hand smooth over the flat of Blaine’s chest, the slight, hairy curve of his abdomen, down to engulf his now-soft cock, gently working the flesh in his palm.  “Is this okay?  You want this?” he asks, even though he’s not sure Blaine is present enough to give him an answer.  But his cock is filling; his body, at least, seems to say yes.

Blaine slips a knee over Kurt’s, slithers his arms around Kurt’s neck and sighs contentedly, his entire form arching into a stretch.  “Nine months,” he mumbles, nuzzling forward until their noses bump, sliding his lips across Kurt’s in a dry, bumbling kiss.

It’s perfect.  _Blaine_ is perfect. 

“I’m just so glad you’re here,” he says.  “You’re okay.”  He sighs and buries his face in Blaine’s neck, breathing him in.  “You came home to me.”

Blaine makes a tiny noise of distress, says, “’M sorry,” and Kurt is happy to touch his skin, kiss his face, reassure him:

“That’s okay.  It’s in the past now.  Forgiven.”

He pulls back enough to see Blaine smile, lazy, because the bad part is all over now, and now there is only this, only them, and that’s the best feeling ever.   Now it’s only Blaine filling his hand, filling his heart.  There’s something about relief that makes boundless love even brighter.

Kurt thinks of the massage Blaine undoubtedly intended to give him tonight, thinks of Blaine’s body so responsive to his touch, looks at his face, eyes closed and curls skewed, drowsy against the pillow.  Maybe they’ll have sex tonight, and maybe they won’t, but the best part is that it doesn’t matter.  It’s been nine months, but Kurt’s knows they’ll have many, many more.


End file.
